


Cardboard Crowns

by Quillium



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, I just want them to be happy and cute and be a family okay?, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: Ezran blinks a few times, “How did you find me? I thought that I was doing a pretty good job at hiding.”Callum laughs. “Sure, you were,” he points at Bait, who’s perched on Ezran’s hair, “But Bait? Not exactly top notch.”ORCallum, adjusting to becoming the King's adopted son, and the family he makes there.





	1. Adjusting (aka The Ball on the Ground)

He finds Callum beside his bed with a sketchbook and ink pot, balanced stiffly on his legs and careful not to spill anything.

Harrow watches for a moment, leaning against the doorway, and then calls out, “Would you like a desk?”

Callum doesn’t start too fast, careful about the ink pot though his shoulders do a little jump before he sets the ink pot on the ground and turns around, flying to stand as he presses a fist to his chest, “Your Majesty,” he stammers, eyes wide, sketchbook still open with a half-finished drawing on its pages.

“None of that,” Harrow says, shaking his head, “You’re my son, aren’t you? Call me whatever you want.”

He visibly hesitates, biting his lips and lowering his head, the perfect picture of submission, and it feels wrong. “It’s disrespectful,” Callum murmurs.

“Teenagers typically are.”

“Parents don’t typically have the power to behead said teenager,” Callum says under his breath, and then his eyes widen, “I mean…”

“It’s good, it’s good,” Harrow laughs, “It’s good to hear you cracking jokes around me. Better to be disrespected than have everyone around me stiff as a board, yes?”

Callum does a jerky little shrug-type motion, and Harrow thinks, _we’ll work on it_.

“I’m not actually going to behead you, though,” Harrow says, wondering if Callum actually meant it, “That would be ridiculous. We don’t really behead anyone, actually, except mass murderers.”

Another jerky movement.

Harrow decides to move on, desperately hoping that it will do something to ease the tension hanging thick in the air.

“So, drawing?” Harrow bends down and Callum’s fingers twitch, as though he wants to grab the sketchbook and burn it as Harrow peers at the curled lines. “It looks fantastic.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Callum says, sounding as though saying the words physically hurts him.

“Still so stiff,” Harrow sighs. Pats the ground next to him, “It’s alright to tell me if you don’t want me around. I understand that the transition can be… difficult.”

Callum stares at him, avoiding his eyes, focusing on the bridge of Harrow’s nose and the crinkle of his forehead.

Maybe it’s because he’s an artist.

(Harrow knows it’s not that. Callum still won’t look him in the eye, and maybe that’s Harrow’s fault, for calling him _son_ when he’s not really his father.)

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Callum says quietly.

Harrow shakes his head, clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, “We’ll work on it. How are you finding your room?”

“It’s wonderful, your Majesty.”

“You can drop the your Majesty, you know.” Harrow smiles a bit, amused, “I’m not that intimidating, am I?”

The look that Callum gives him implies that he is (which is, um, flattering? But also disheartening? It’s a mix, really. Flattenheartening? Erm. Harrow should not be smashing words together. He’s a King, he’s pretty sure Kings don’t smash words together. Ah, well. He’ll just have to be the first?).

“Would you like a desk?” Harrow asks, fingertips brushing the edges of the sketchbook. He can see now the outline of mountains, a bird, maybe the view outside of Callum’s window? “It can’t be comfortable, crouching over the floor like this.”

“It’s fine, your…” a visible scramble for another word, “…Highness.”

A little laugh, “Does it make you more comfortable, calling me these fancy titles?”

Another intense little stare, a few stammered starts, like Callum is searching and failing to grab the proper words.

“It’s fine,” Harrow cuts in while Callum is still starting sentences and cutting himself off with increasingly panicked looks, “Take your time. Are you sure that you don’t want a desk? It would probably be better for your posture.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Callum squeaks. (He is adorable.) “I’ve already accepted so much generosity…”

“It isn’t generosity for a father to give a son gifts…”

“I’m not your _son_ …”

Silence, in the air, Harrow lowering his eyes and Callum’s blown wide.

“I see,” Harrow says, quietly, mourning, “I apologize.”

“No, it’s not…” Callum’s fingers tighten on his quill, the ink pot sits still by his side, untouched, shiny and new. “I’m grateful for everything that you’ve done for me.”

“But I’m not your father.”

“It isn’t that,” Callum’s voice is soft, pained.

Harrow stands, hands loose at his sides, fingers uncurled, like he isn’t sure what to do with them.

(He isn’t. He never knows… Harrow is a wonderful politician, but he’s never been good with these personal things, always terrified of, you know, messing up and scarring his children for life.)

 _Then what is it_ , he wants to ask. It sits on the tip of his tongue, yearning to be asked, but instead, he says, “Okay,” dumb, like his words can’t quite come out the right way. “Just… tell someone if you want a desk.”

And, okay.

_Really? You’re not going to do something ridiculous, like just buy him things instead of running away and never spending time with him because it’s too awkward, are you?_

Nooo. Of course not.

(That is totally what he’s doing.)

“Thank you,” Harrow says, dipping his head.

“For what?” Callum asks, and looks surprised.

Harrow doesn’t know.

For talking to him? Breathing the same air? Not spitting in his face and yelling _you’ll never be my father_? For acting civil, if somewhat awkward? For giving him a chance?

“For your time.”

“Um,” Callum blinks at him, looking vaguely uncertain, “Thank you. For your time. Because you’re, um, a king. And I’m sure that you’re usually very busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” Harrow says.

Callum stares at him like he’s grown a second head, and then, somewhat uncomfortably, like he’s uncertain what to do with the information that the king of this country would drop everything to spend time with him, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Harrow says.

Callum nods.

Harrow nods.

It is all very awkward.

“I’ll, um, let you get back to your drawing, then?”

“Yes,” Callum says, faintly. And then, when Harrow reaches the door, is about the close it, hesitantly, “A desk would be nice.”

It’s an olive branch, maybe.

Harrow accepts it.

“I’ll bring a catalogue later,” he says.

Callum smiles a bit at him, and Harrow smiles back.

Okay. Maybe this _can_ work.

___

Ezran is sitting on the steps of the bakery, sneers ringing in his ears ( _you think you’re special because you’re royalty?_ ) and a ball sitting beside him ( _you think that you deserve to get whatever you want, just because you’re the prince?_ ) and he stares at his hands, something hot and cold and uncomfortable sitting in his chest ( _you can’t order us around_ and he _knows that_ , he just wanted to do something else because he didn’t want to play ball, except they obviously did and…).

“Hey, your highness,” light and teasing, and he draws in a sharp breath before the voice registers and his head snaps up, a smile on his face.

“ _Callum_!”

Callum waves, a jaunty, two-fingered thing, crooked smile on his lips and eyebrows raised, “What’s up with your hands? You were staring at them like you couldn’t figure them out. Didn’t trip and hurt yourself, did you?”

“No, no, I just,” Ezran stands up quickly, “Just thinking.”

A smile, and Callum pokes his head, “Always thinking. Too clever for the rest of us, I suppose?”

It’s teasing, light, it’s _Callum_ , for goodness sake, but the words ring too close to the words from the boys from before and it rings in his ears like a church bell.

“No, no, I’m not,” Ezran says quickly, “I’m normal.”

Callum smiles, and Ezran can’t figure out if it’s kind or maybe it’s been patronizing and he’s just been too stupid and Callum is only with him because he’s the prince or…

_No._

Callum’s not like that, Ezran reminds himself, sharp and frustrated that he’d ever doubt Callum like that.

“Any grand adventure today?” Callum asks, peering curiously at the ball on the ground with an odd little twist to his lips, sitting uncomfortably like a frown. Maybe he wants to play ball, too, like the boys had. Maybe Ezran’s holding him back.

Ezran starts, thinking of what he wants to do, before he swallows it down, thinking, maybe he’s been selfish and Callum was only playing with him to be nice, not because he actually liked playing with Ezran.

“Um… nope!” He smiles nervously, crossing his fingers behind his back, “We can do whatever _you_ want, today!”

“Oh…” Callum blinks at him, eyebrows furrowing, “…okay. Do you have anything you think seems fun or…”

“Whatever you want!” Ezran repeats, because it’s only right, right?

Callum stares at him, and then, quietly, “Do you want to play ball?”

Ezran _hates_ playing ball. It seems so ridiculous and everyone only wants to win and it’s always the same thing, there’s nothing _exciting_ to it, no stakes, but if Callum wants to do it, he’ll do it. “Sure,” he says, trying to hide his reluctance.

They play for a few seconds before Callum sighs, “You don’t want to play ball, do you.”

It isn’t a question.

“If you want to,” Ezran quickly says.

A twitch, a smile, and then, “I hate playing ball. I’m terrible at it.”

“Oh, good,” Ezran sits down next to Callum on the steps, “I hate it, too.”

Callum laughs, “Then why were we playing it?”

Ezran shrugs, “I thought that you wanted to.”

A beat of silence, and then, “Thank you. But you shouldn’t do something you don’t want to, just because I want to.”

“But you always do the things that I want to do!” Ezran protests.

“I like doing things with you,” Callum ruffles his hair, “You always find new and exciting things to do. Or new and exciting ways to do things that weren’t so new and exciting before. It’s fun.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Ezran swallows, and smiles, “Thanks, Callum.”

“No problem, kiddo,” Callum moves in front of Ezran and bends onto one knee, “Come on, you have a plan in that big brain of yours, I’ll bet. Let me be your noble stead today, and guide me to the next great adventure.”

Laughing, Ezran boards and Callum piggy backs him, running and spinning and jumping so that the ride is always exciting, and they go explore the nearby woods.

Ezran’s no good with people.

He’s never really been good with them.

But on Callum’s back, pointing at trees and pretending to be chased by monsters, he thinks, he doesn’t need to be.

He’s alright, just the way he is, isn’t he?


	2. Siblings (aka Callum Has a Lot to Learn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re the best big brother.”
> 
> “I’m your only big brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *awkwardly* I have no idea what I'm doing. I just want fluff.

She is sitting on his bed while he swings his sword, jaunty and short and firm, solid strokes.

Claudia has a book in hand, but her eyes are on Soren, the broad but controlled movements he makes, the weights on his wrists and ankles and the metal vest on his chest as substitute for a suit of armour.

It isn’t her style, swordplay.

It could have been, her father offered, but Claudia has always been a more studious one, one to analyze and test and examine before beginning. Movement, motion, it has never been her thing. She has preferred libraries and solitude while Soren took to the way his mind could blank out as he swung his sword around.

(Also, it gave him more opportunities to show off for girls. Oh, yes, Claudia knows. _Boys_ , honestly. Absolutely ridiculous, if you ask her.)

Soren was offered magic as well, but he grew up with butterflies in jars and frogs in his bathtub, too soft to do what had to be done to cast a _real_ spell.

The room is big, wide, lots of space for practice, even though Soren has always been a bit of a slob, socks on the floor and jackets on chairs.

He’s cleaned up his act since taking up sword fighting, preferring the wide space and open motion. When he doesn’t clean his room and dad scolds him for it, Soren likes using the excuse that ‘you never know what terrain you’ll be fighting in, it’s good to have obstacles and be prepared’.

Claudia knows that it’s just because he’s lazy, but, hey, her room is not exactly a hotel either, so she can’t judge.

Harrow has asked Soren to teach Callum sword fighting, and Claudia knows how honoured and flattered Soren is.

She also knows what this means, dad expecting more, asking more, when they still aren’t quite sure what his expectations were _before_ this whole ‘teach the step-prince’ thing came into play.

She understands politics, to an extent, and she knows that her father always chooses the power-plays, always chooses to ally himself with the one who will win the long game (or, at least, the one he can use so that _he_ wins the long game) and she still is conflicted about how she feels about it.

“Always reading those big books of yours?” Soren raps his knuckles on her forehead, carefully light, a roguish grin lighting his eyes.

“Better than you, all brawn and no brain,” Claudia bats away his arm with a laugh, and he presses a hand to his chest, pretending to be wounded.

“I am offended. So offended. Like, _so_ offended.”

Soren begins his cool down, stretching and breathing deeply while Claudia rolls her eyes. “Just telling the truth.”

“ _Ouch_ , sis. Careful, or I’ll start to think that you don’t like me.”

“Better now than never, you know the truth,” Claudia answers cheerfully, falling into easy banter, “It’s alright, I always seem like a genius when people compare me to you.”

Soren slams his hand onto his chest, and again, falling down, “Fatality!”

She shakes her head at him, laughing.

He finishes stretching a bit, the two falling into a comfortable silence that only siblings can really share, she thinks, and then he takes off his metal vest, though she notes that the weights stay on his wrists, their pretty blue markings disguising how heavy they weigh on him.

“So, sis,” Soren rests his head on Claudia’s shoulder, eyes focused on hers, “What lame nerd thing are you reading about today?”

“I’d tell you,” Claudia says, “But I don’t think you’d understand it.”

“So mean,” he pouts at her, “C’mon, spill.”

She sighs at him, but sets aside her book, knowing that she isn’t going too far with him in the room. “It’s about theories of magic and how they connect to each creature, and how we can draw that power.”

“O-kay,” Soren huffs at her, “Mind dumbing it down for me?”

Claudia wishes she were good enough to make illusions, but she can’t, so she says, “Let me get some paper, first,” and he shifts obligingly. She looks around his desks and such, but finds none, so she sighs, “You have none.”

Soren shrugs, hands splayed open. “Guilty as charged,” he agrees amicably, and she scrunches her nose at him, saying in that uppity voice of hers _ridiculous_. “Can’t help it if I’m not as smart as you.”

“You’re plenty smart,” she raps her knuckles on his head, mimicking what he’d done earlier to catch her attention, “You just don’t use your smarts for anything other than battle strategy.”

“Battle strategy is important,” he protests.

“Better avoid battle than to win it,” Claudia quotes one of her fancy books and Soren makes a face at her to express his annoyance.

She makes a face back, to express how ridiculous she thinks he is.

It’s alright. It’s a mutual feeling, really.

“But if you _have_ to do battle…”

Which, really, looking at the state of their kingdom? Yeah. She gets it. “Then fine,” she agrees reluctantly, “You’re the one for the job.”

A triumphant smile. “Boo-yah.”

 _Ugh_. “Please… never say that again.”

Repeated, just to irk her. “ _Boo. Yah._ ”

“I hate you.”

“You looove me,” he leans forward, making those stupid kiss-y faces, and Claudia laughs as she shoves his face away.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re not denying that you love me?”

Another laugh as they move through the halls, out of his room, jostling against each other in easy, practiced movements.

The two eventually find their way to the library, Claudia moving with ease to get empty parchment and Soren looking around, more a tourist than one at home.

The library _is_ grand, chestnut shelves and tomes old and new, thick, carpeted ground and stain glass windows. Walls lined in books and words and colour, sunlight peering through ceiling high openings and a balcony wrapped around the edges, making a second floor that can be seen from the first.

The step-prince is in the parchment room when they arrive, a bottle of beetle green ink in hand and a sketchbook tucked beneath his arm.

Soren’s stomach twists a little at the sight of the step prince, who moves with ease around the parchment, already aware where everything is despite having just arrived.

“Well,” Claudia says, smiling, “We were hoping to meet you, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

The step prince starts, wheeling around to stare at them, wide-eyed, pressing his sketchbook to his chest. “Um.”

“Relax, relax,” Claudia wiggles her fingers as she moves into the room, an easy grin on her lips. “We won’t bite.”

“Too hard,” Soren adds, smiling innocently when Claudia shoots him a dirty look. “Chill, kid. Step-prince Callum, right?”

The step prince is not making eye contact. “Callum is fine.”

“Great, great. I’m going to teach you sword fighting. Soren, best in the land,” he sticks his hands out, smirking.

Callum shakes it uncertainly. “I look forward to it,” he says tightly, in a voice suggesting that he absolutely does not look forward to it.

“Don’t worry,” Claudia has a few pieces of rolled parchment in hand, and she slings her empty arm over Callum’s shoulders, “He acts stupid, but he’s good at what he does. Or, at least,” she winks, “he’s not _bad_.”

“Best in the land,” Soren repeats, huffing.

“That’s what he tells himself,” Claudia shrugs, “Whether it’s true or not…”

Callum smiles a bit, small and shy, and Soren feels a bit envious of how quickly Claudia had gotten him to loosen up.

“So, what are you doing in the parchment room?” Claudia changes the subject, eyes darting to the sketchbook in Callum’s hand, “Going to draw the next masterpiece?”

“Oh, no, I’m not,” Callum’s grip, if possible, tightens even further, “I’m not very good at it.”

“Oh?”

“No, I’m, uh,” Callum reddens, “I’m not much good at anything.”

Okay, then. Soren blinks. This is awkward.

Claudia shoots him a look, and they exchange glances, because, well, sibling powers? It’s totally a thing.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Claudia says.

Callum shoots her a tight, awkward smile, “I’m sure that, your, um…” he tosses a helpless sort of glance at Soren.

“ _Soren_ ,” Soren provides.

“ _Soren_ ,” Callum says quickly, “will make me good at sword fighting.” He looks away while he says it, though, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

That’s fine. Soren will show _him_. He’ll be the best teacher ever, and the step prince will become heralded across the world as the second best swords master in the land.

“Of course,” Claudia agrees, “Actually, now that we’ve met you, why don’t you come with us? Get to know each other a bit. We’ll be seeing each other a lot from now on, after all.”

“Oh, no, that’s…”

“Sounds great,” Claudia pushes him forward, “So, we were talking about…”

 _Claudia_. Soren shakes his head a bit, smiling fondly. She’s ridiculous and pushy and…

He watches as the step prince untenses a bit, shoulders dropping and offering small smiles.

…And she’s good with people.

Well.

He can’t let her have all the glory, now can he?

“Don’t pay too much attention to Claudia,” he says, moving up to them, “She thinks that she knows _everything_.”

“Do not, Soren.”

“Do, too. Hey, you know, when she was seven, she picked up a _bug_ … a _bug_! …And started telling me about its bones? Like, that’s just _creepy_. And _then_ she put it in my hair!”

“Soren started screaming like a banshee and started running around…”

“ _Hey_ , I was a kid!”

“Mm-hm. He’s still _terrified_ of bugs, you know. One time, I put a fake ant in his lunch…”

___

“Hey-o, kiddo,” Callum plops down next to Ezran, who’s been squeezed in the little place behind the fridge, hiding from the enraged chefs. “Who are we hiding from today?”

“The world,” Ezran says, which he doesn’t really understand, but it sounds cool and mysterious and Claudia read it to him from a book once.

“I see,” Callum’s expression softens a bit, “Am I part of the world?”

Ezran takes a minute to digest what Callum is _really_ asking, because sometimes he says things that _sound_ like they have really obvious answers but then Ezran thinks about it some more and it turns out it had another, also kind of obvious answer.

Then, he thinks, it’s probably that he’s asking if Ezran wants to hide from _him_ , too, because Callum is weird like that, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Callum nods, adopting a determined sort of look, and squeezes in so that he’s face to face with Ezran, so close that if he leans forward their noses will smoosh against each other.

“Why are _you_ here?” Ezran asks. He can’t tilt his head to the side, because the space is too tight, but if he could, he would.

“Just spending time with you,” Callum answers lightly, like that’s something that people do, just spend time with Ezran for the sake of spending time with him. It makes him feel all warm and tingy, down to his toes, each time he hears someone say something like that.

“Oh,” Ezran blinks a few times, “…how did you find me? I thought that I was doing a pretty good job.”

Callum laughs. “Sure, _you_ were,” he points at Bait, who’s perched on Ezran’s hair, “But Bait? Not exactly top notch.”

Ezran reddens. Oops. He probably should have thought of that. “I’ll make him a cloak or something,” he decides, “As a disguise.”

Callum laughs, that way that dad sometimes does when he thinks that Ezran is being ‘creative’. “Sounds awesome. You know how to sew?”

“Um, no,” Ezran shrugs, which is super hard in the tight space, but he manages. “But I can learn.”

“Of course,” Callum said, almost absent-mindedly, as though he were inwardly scolding himself for forgetting that. “Sounds like it’d be fun to learn who to sew. Needles in your fingers and frustration with every sloppy stitch…”

“Are you trying to discourage me?”

“Of course not.”

“Mm-hm. Sounds like you’re trying to discourage me.”

A beat of silence, before Callum says, “You’re the heir to the throne, Ezran. Sewing is for servants.”

Ezran scowls, “ _You_ sew all the time. I see you patch up your ripped up clothes all the time!”

Callum frowns, “That’s… different.”

“ _How_? You’re the king’s son, too. You’re a prince, too.”

“It’s not…”

“Besides,” Ezran shimmies upwards until he’s in a standing position, “Dad says that kings are the greatest servants, because they have to serve the entire kingdom. So it makes sense that I learn servant things, right?”

Callum sighs, squeezing out until he’s popped back into open space, “I’m not going to change your mind, am I.”

“Don’t tell me what not to do,” Ezran says, wobbling out as he squeezes out from behind the fridge, “Isn’t it my duty to learn all that I can?”

Callum is silent for a moment, staring at his shoes, then he sighs, loud and long, and holds out his hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You should learn all that you can. It’s good that you want to learn something new. I shouldn’t have tried to hold you back on pretences of what’s ‘right’ for a prince. Will you forgive me?”

Ezran smiles a bit before shaking Callum’s head, “Yeah. It’s alright! You’re still learning too, right?”

“Yeah,” Callum rubs his nose, “I’m learning how to be a good…”

“Good…?” Ezran leans closer.

Callum reddens, “Nothing.”

“No, you were totally going to say something!”

“It was nothing.”

“Liar, liar, tunic on fire.”

Callum groans, swatting Ezran’s hands as they fly around, “I’m still learning how to be a good brother, alright?”

Ezran stops dancing around, face lighting up as he turns to Callum, stars in his eyes.

Callum rubs his hand over his face, “Don’t make me repeat it, okay?”

“We’re brothers,” Ezran beams, “Best brothers. You’re the best big brother.”

“I’m your _only_ big brother.”

“Which makes you the best.”

A small laugh, “I’m also the _worst_ big brother, then.”

“No, no, nope, you’re not, because you’re the best.”

“I’m the _only_ big brother, though.”

Ezran scrunches up his face, nose wrinkling and eyebrows drawing together before he says, firm and determined, “ _No_.”

Callum shakes his head and laughs again, a bit louder this time. “Well, you’re the best little brother.”

Ezran beams, “Not just because I’m the only one?”

“Of course not,” Callum agrees easily, bending down, “Piggy back?”

Nodding quickly, Ezran climbs onto his back, Bait adjusting to rest between the two. “Where are you going to take me?”

Callum doesn’t even think about it. “Where do you want to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really like sibling relationships, okay?


	3. Rice Pudding (aka Testing Waters)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yangrin wasn’t built in a day,” Claudia answers lightly, twisting a finger and Callum’s sword flies forward, smashing into her face and knocking her back. “Ow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything you want to see in this fic, as far as bonding goes? Sickfic chapter will come around chapter 7 or so, I don't want to rush into it too quickly, and Amaya won't come until later, but other than that, I'm totally up for prompts.

Ezran is perched on the edge of the castle wall, legs dangling off the edge, Callum sketching him from a spot across from him, sky blue, sun warm.

A hawk circles Ezran once, twice, then flies away and lands on the arm of a woman with her arm out. She waves at Ezran, who waves back, smiling a bit.

Callum is silent, the only sound between the two the scratch of his pen on paper, and they stay like that for a while before Ezran asks, quietly, “Do you like being with me?”

The pen scratches a bit more, Callum silent, and Ezran thinks that he hasn’t heard before Callum asks, wounded, “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” Ezran blinks, flailing for a moment, before exclaiming, “No! No! I didn’t… why would you ask that?”

“It’s, just,” the pen halts now, Callum’s eyes still lowered, like he can’t bear to make eye contact with Ezran, “Why would you ask that if I weren’t doing something to make you think that I didn’t like being with you? I… is it something I did? Or is it because I’m always drawing instead of making eye contact or because I talk too much about me and not enough about you or…” he cuts himself off, biting his lip, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s not,” Ezran folds his hands together in his lap, and then, feeling odd, unfolds them again. “I just wanted to know.”

“Oh,” Callum raises his gaze, tilting his head a bit at Ezran, “Of course I like being with you. Why else would I be here with you right now?”

“Because I’m the prince,” Ezran shrugs, “Because we’re brothers. Because you’re nice and you feel bad that I don’t have any friends?”

“I don’t have any friends, either,” Callum laughs a bit, “No. I like being with you. You’re much cooler than most of the other people that I know.”

“Oh,” Ezran brightens up a bit, “So you like being with me?”

“Yeah,” Callum makes a little jerky motion, “Of course I do.”

“Oh,” Ezran seems a bit at loss for what to say, “That’s good.”

Callum laughs, “You know what you need?”

Ezran shakes his head.

“ _Food_. Good food. Like rice pudding.”

Ezran scrunches up his nose, “Nobody likes rice pudding, Callum.”

Callum pouts at him, “ _I_ do.”

“Well, you’re weird.”

“ _What_?” Callum squawks. “Hmph. Okay, fine. You just lost your piggy back ride privileges.”

“Nooo, Callum, then I have to _walk_.”

“You’re always running around anyway!”

“But what about why I’m older and I can’t fit on your back anymore and you want to give me a piggy back but you can’t because I’m so heavy?”

Callum shakes his head, laughing, “I’ll manage.”

Ezran sighs, knowing the battle is lost, and takes Callum’s hand instead.

Callum’s fingers and long and thin, a sharp contrast to Ezran’s smaller, flatter fingers. Callum’s fingers were made for drawing, Ezran’s were made to help him get wherever he needed to go. Callum for picking leaves off the ground, Ezran for climbing up trees.

Ezran likes it this way. He thinks they fit perfectly together, like those stories that Aunt Amaya tells them of Yin and Yang.

They move slow, meandering through the halls, only speeding when they reach the stairs and Ezran leaps on the bannister, Callum groaning _this is going to hurt_ before following suit, and sure thing, though Ezran jumps off and lands nicely, Callum isn’t fast enough and… sort of flops off, arms flailing wildly as he falls over and lands on his face.

Ezran is a wonderful brother, so he doesn’t laugh.

Much.

Ha.

Yeah, right.

Ezran bends over, laughing until his sides hurt and he’s gasping for breath and Callum is groaning as he mutters, _yeah, yeah, very funny_ and Ezran says _of course it is, that’s why I’m laughing_ except he doesn’t because he’s laughing too hard to speak.

They gather themselves before anyone stumbles on the scene, the ungraceful prince on the ground and the heir to the throne just laughing instead of helping him up.

They settle themselves none too soon, Callum picking Ezran up and shaking him up and down until he squeals, reaching out his hands to steady himself on Callum’s shoulders.

“You have to jump off at the lamp,” Ezran says.

“I know that _now_ ,” Callum grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ezran just laughs at him, taking Callum’s hand and swinging their arms back and forth, “What do you want to eat?”

“Well, since apparently you don’t like rice pudding…”

“ _Nobody_ does, Callum…”

Callum ignores Ezran, “…I suppose we’ll need something else. What about egg tarts?”

“Ooh, those are good!” Ezran licks his lips, “What about jelly tarts?”

Callum scrunches up his nose, “They’re so _sweet_.”

“They’re so good, you mean.”

A pained look, “I really, really don’t. They’re, like, compartmentalized sugar.”

“Dad likes them.”

Callum stares at Ezran, and then, in a pained voice, “His majesty is a wonderful ruler, but doesn’t have the best taste in food.”

“Excuse you! He has great taste in food.”

“ _Jelly tarts_ , Ezran. Why do they even exist.”

“Because they’re _delicious_.”

“They’re so impractical, though! They make a mess and get everywhere and…”

“ _Callum_ ,” Ezran shoots Callum a stern look, “I think that you’re missing the point.”

Callum pauses in his gesturing, looking guilty as he sighs, “No, you’re right, Ezran. I mean, it’s just food, and personal preferences don’t really matter. I shouldn’t judge you for what you like.”

“No, that’s not…” Ezran scrunched up his nose, “I mean, what’s really important is that you like rice pudding. And rice pudding is _gross_.”

“You did not…”

“I mean, it has rice inside! Like, slimy little things! Why would you _want_ that?”

“Jelly is way slimier than rice!”

“No, it’s not! I mean…”

___

“Not still sore that I beat you, are you?” Soren grins as he drops down next to the step prince, legs crossed, changed into civvies.

Callum glances at him, quick, red-faced, and then, squeaky, as though still remembering his… er, _unique_ , loss, “ _No_ ,” Gathering himself a bit more visibly, “Sword fighting is not really my thing.”

“No, _really_?” Laughing, Soren lifts his bottle of water and presses it to the side of Callum’s face, “Stay hydrated.”

“Oh, um,” Callum’s eyes skirt between the water bottle and Soren’s face, like he’s not sure whether he’s supposed to take it or not. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Soren leans back, drinking his water, and Callum looks away awkwardly, “How’s paradise?”

“Um?”

“The palace,” Soren raises an eyebrow, “Come on. You’ve been adopted by the king, turned into a prince? Who _doesn’t_ want that? It’s totally the dream, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Well,” Callum traces the inside of his hand with a thumb, “It’s, I mean, nice. Better than nice, I guess. It’s good. Very good. It’s, um, yes. Good.”

Soren stares, and then groans and falls backward, shoulders protesting when they slam against the ground.

 _Ow_.

(His fault.)

“You don’t like the palace.”

“It’s not that. It’s great. It’s fantastic. It’s…”

“What more do you _want_ , dude?”

Callum is quiet, fingers interlocking, eyes lowered, and then, a bit helplessly, “I don’t know.”

Soren sits up so fast he can feel his neck cracking, “You don’t _know_? Seriously?”

“It’s just, it’s so,” Callum waves a hand, looking disturbingly helpless, “It’s so _much_. King Harrow comes to my room and… talks to me. About stuff. And tries to figure out how to be a dad? And he offers to buy me things, and it’s just, it’s, it’s a lot.”

Soren tries to imagine a life where there’s _too much_ , where he thinks he’s given more than he can accept, and finds it hard to wrap his mind around. “Okay, man,” he frowns and shrugs, “If you say so.”

“It’s not, it’s not bad,” Callum is quick to reassure him, “It’s just… different.”

Soren is quiet for a minute, thinking, and then he says, “Nobody’s pressuring you to be more than you are.”

“No,” Callum stares at his hands, “No. Everyone’s so patient. Somehow it makes me feel worse when I end up failing.”

“You won’t _keep_ failing.”

A wry smile now, “Try me.”

“You _won’t_ ,” Soren punches Callum, “Because you’ve got _me_. And I’m the best. Youngest captain of the guard, you know that? In _history_. You’re lucky.”

“I know that,” Callum sighs.

Soren leans back, resting on his hands, and sighs. “I guess you’re more brainy than sword-y?”

A laugh this time, and Soren feels something like pride swell in his chest, “I’m not smart, either. I’m not anything, really. All I can do is draw.”

“That’s something,” Soren nudges Callum’s shoulder, bumping their arms against each other.

“Not really,” Callum scrunches up his nose, “I mean, _drawing_? Anyone can draw, as long as they do it enough.”

Soren frowns, “And it’s not the same for anything else?”

“Well…”

“Look, kid,” Soren stands up, flipping his water bottle in his hands, “Step prince. Whatever. You are getting up and we are going to _walk_.”

“What? We’re… what?”

“You heard me,” Soren flaps his hands impatiently, “Come on, step prince. Move it.”

Raised eyebrows, dubious. Callum doesn’t move an inch, “Where are you taking me?”

“To the training grounds.”

“ _What_?” Callum squawks, “What? No. Nope. _No_ , you’ve seen how terrible I was, you saw how…”

“I know,” Soren puts his hands on his hips, “Look, kid. It’ll reflect badly on me if you keep fighting the way you did this afternoon, and you can’t quit lessons until you get at least to a soldier’s level. So we’re going to practice. How’d you get good at drawing, huh?”

Silence, Callum knowing the answer.

Soren smirks, “And how are you going to get good at fighting?”

“I don’t _want_ to get good at fighting.”

“Nobody cares what you want,” Soren snorts, “C’mon, move it, move it.”

Groaning loudly, Callum gets up as reluctantly as he physically can, and follows Soren, who laughs at how ridiculously childish the step prince is acting.

“ _Dude_ , quit whining. You look like a baby.”

He at least has the decency to look chagrined, sighing, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Soren waves his hands as they approach the weapons shed. He pulls the shed key from beneath the bushes and unlocks the door, “Not like I’m going to be going easy on you just because you don’t want to do this, though.”

Callum makes a face at him.

Soren laughs and tosses a wooden practice sword at him.

Callum fumbles with an almost comical sort of clumsiness, hands flying and scrambling to catch the sword as it bounces from hand to hand.

It’s… actually kind of sad.

“You’re terrible,” Soren observes.

Callum glares at him, “Yeah. Thanks. Great. I had _no_ idea.”

Soren rolls his eyes and backs into the courtyard, sword held in one hand and stance loose, easy and light. “Come on. Try and hit me.”

Another flat stare. “Are you serious.”

“Deadly.” Soren cracks a grin, “You know, if you can’t even hit me, then you would totally be dead with a real enemy and…”

“I know, I know, I need to defend myself as a prince, etcetera.”

“Great,” Soren beams and beckons with one hand. “Come at me.”

He _charges_.

Like a bull after a red flag.

It’s _hilarious_.

Soren dances out of the way and smashes the butt of his sword in between Callum’s shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward and gasping for breath. “Again.”

A pause, and Callum says, “Ow.”

“Yes, pain. It’s a great teacher,” Dad’s favourite teaching phrase comes easily to mind and Soren cracks his neck side to side, “Come at me.”

Another charge.

It’s pitiful, honestly.

Soren slams the side of his blade into the backs of Callum’s knees, “Again.”

Something thoughtful, Callum’s eyebrows knitting together, and he comes, bent over, sword aimed somewhere beside Soren’s legs.

Soren bends down and pulls at Callum’s wrist.

Face, meet dirt.

“I think you broke my wrist.”

Soren scoffs, “Baby.”

“I hate you.”

“You have to be light on your feet,” Soren bounces a bit on his toes to show Callum, “And firm in your core.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Come at me. Pay attention to your feet.”

He does, except he’s _looking_ at his feet, and this is getting to be seriously pitiful.

“Paying attention doesn’t mean _staring_ at them like some goggle head,” Soren points out, disgusted, “It just means being aware.”

“I am very aware of how in pain I am,” Callum says.

“Great. Pain keeps you aware and alive,” Soren drags the tip of his sword in the dirt, “Again.”

Callum moves so slowly, it’s painful just watching him.

They go until it’s dark outside and Soren’s water bottle is empty, Callum sporting some impressive bruises, and then Soren says, “Let’s get some water.”

“Let’s _stop_.”

“Yes,” Soren rolls his eyes, “We can’t exactly fight our way to the water. Well. I mean…” he rubs his chin, “That’s not a bad idea…”

“No. Please no. Please, stop, I’m good, I’m fine, really, it’s…”

Soren raises his sword and presses the edge against Callum’s throat, “Fight.”

Groaning, Callum pulls himself to his feet, sword dangling in his hand, and then, taking a somewhat decent stance, sighs, “Ready.”

He’s really not.

(Soren attacks anyway.)

They only manage to make it halfway down the hall before Claudia intercepts them, tripping Soren with some spell and plucking his sword from his hands, a wry smile on her lips.

“That’s enough torture for today, don’t you think?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Callum says, relieved, “Yes, please.”

Soren scoffs, “He’s not good enough yet.”

“Yangrin wasn’t built in a day,” Claudia answers lightly, twisting a finger and Callum’s sword flies forward, smashing into her face and knocking her back. “ _Ow_.”

Soren snorts, leaning over her and offering a hand, “That was bad, even for you.”

She glares at him, “I’m _working_ on it.”

“Right, right,” Soren winks at Callum, “She’s always ‘working on it’.”

“Well, things always need to be improved,” Claudia turns to Callum, “Don’t you agree?”

“Well, uh, yeah,” Callum blinks, looking surprised to be pulled into the conversation, “I guess.”

“If you agree, then you agree that you need to keep working on your swordplay and footwork?” Soren prods, wiggling his eyebrows.

A loud, long groan.

Soren is amused, Callum is suffering, it’s fantastic, really.

The three of them fall into an easy rapport as they move to the kitchens. Once they’re there, Soren discovers that Callum shares Claudia’s disgusting taste for rice pudding (seriously it’s _gross_ and weird and _why_ ) and Claudia tries to demonstrate a spell she’s trying but ends up falling asleep, face in her pudding bowl and Soren snickers when her head snaps up, face covered in pudding.

The step prince laughs, Claudia pouts, it’s all good.

So when the day ends and his dad asks how sword lessons went, when Soren says _not bad_ , he’s almost surprised to realize that he means it.

Almost, but, not quite.

It was fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but imagine, a _Pirate AU_.


End file.
